Vulpes Medico: Delayed Emancipation
by FemaleChauvinist
Summary: Enslaved by the White Witch, the little faun had no idea that her rule was over until he stumbled through a crack in the mine into free Narnia.
1. Slave Labour

**Disclaimer:** While the attempt has been made to be medically accurate as far as is consistent with the fantasy world of Narnia, some artistic license has been taken, and statements made by Rawlstow are not to be regarded as authoritative.  
Narnia and recognizable characters thereof are the property of the estate of C. S. Lewis; all original characters and story © 2018 FemaleChauvinist.

 _Do not post without permission. Do not copy/print without including the above disclaimer in its entirety._

 **A/N: My fox healer Rawlstow is introduced in my stories "Vulpes Medico: Winter's End" and "Vulpes Medico: Clever Fox," so you might wonder about some things if you haven't read those first. And, yes, Peter and Tumnus** _ **do**_ **come into this, but not until toward the end. Barbie**

 **Chapter One: Slave Labour**

The little faun had no idea how long he had been here, slaving in the mines of the north. How long had it been since he had seen the sun, or even the muted light of a snowy day? Like the Winter itself, it could have been a hundred years for all he knew. Before he had been captured, he had thought being turned to stone was the worst punishment possible, but it couldn't be as bad as this. Even if there was some consciousness of your frozen state — and no one knew; perhaps the part of you that was _you_ simply vanished from existence — there wouldn't be the constant, aching pain in the stump of his tail; the maddening itchiness where his horns had been sawn off. He wouldn't be beaten until his back ran with blood; there wouldn't be sharp splinters of pain in his hooves with each step he took. He wouldn't be coughing; a deep, dry cough that made him falter and brought the lash down again on his back.

The labours for the day were over, though buried in the depths of the earth he had no way of knowing whether it was day or night, and had long since ceased to care.

He barely sipped at the weak broth he was offered, then nibbled at the hard bread until the dry crumbs made him cough; dipping it in the broth no longer occurred to his feverish mind. Tasting blood at the back of his throat, he laid the bread aside, not hungry enough to care when a dwarf appropriated it for his own.

The dwarves had it better than the other creatures here. At the very least, they _liked_ mining and working underground; it didn't take the physical toll on them that it did on the little faun. Most of them were at least partially on the side of the Witch; though slaves as much as the rest, they served as spies and informants and overseers, and as such often had access to better food.

He lay curled in a miserable ball, feeling deeply chilled by the dampness of the mine though his body burned with fever. He was no longer sure whether he was awake or asleep when a small figure came up to him.

In the darkness of the mine he couldn't tell precisely what it was, but when it spoke its voice was that of one of the Talking Beasts of Narnia. "Get up. Come on, get up! Follow me!"

Dazedly the faun stumbled to his feet, no question in his mind of disobeying or even of wondering who this creature was or what it wanted. He was simply too tired and ill to care, and maybe this was all just a dream anyway.

He followed the creature through an abandoned mine shaft, the twists and turns dizzying to his fevered mind.

"Through here! Follow me!" The creature disappeared through a glowing crack in the wall, and the faun stared at it blearily for a moment, swaying slightly on his hooves.

Then he stepped forward and began to wiggle his way through. The crack was narrow even for him, the rough stone scraping horribly at the wounds on his back.

At last, panting, he stood in a larger shaft, lit by torches whose bright, flaring light made him squint. But he had little time to wonder before, exhausted and ill, he crumpled to the ground in a heap.

 _ **Next chapter coming next week!**_

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	2. Refugee

**Chapter Two: Refugee**

There were eight dwarves who lived in the northern woods of Narnia. Sometimes one or two of them stayed to work the forge, or to do chores in the cave they called their home, but on this morning all eight of them went down into their secret mine. Donkor had unearthed a bed of precious stones in one of the new shafts, and they had agreed on a friendly contest to see who could discover the finest.

The torches burning in their holders on the wall gave a lurid, flickering light that to dwarves was as comfortable and friendly as sunlight.

Thinking of glittering gems, none of them were watching where they put their feet, and Nikoden, in the lead, gave a cry of surprise as he stumbled over something lying on the rocky floor.

It had the warmth and give of living flesh and moaned softly, and Nikoden scrambled back in horror, more startled than he cared to admit. "It's-it's — a faun?" he gasped, his voice taking on a note of uncertainty at the end.

"Can't be," Donkor objected as Danskot helped Nikoden to his feet. "It doesn't have any horns, and I don't see a tail, either."

"Don't you remember what they used to say the Witch did to fauns?" Halkin asked soberly.

"Their tails were cut off and their horns sawn off," Jorkin whispered with a shudder.

Norindal gently parted the matted curls of hair to reveal the rough surface where a horn used to be. "It's a faun, right enough."

"But where did he come from? How did he get in?" Padovan demanded.

"Look!" Donkor exclaimed. "There's a crack here. It's not very wide, but I guess he might fit," he added, glancing at the half starved little faun.

"An' there's blood on th' rocks," Danskot said, observing the crack more closely.

"Wherever he came from, he's hurt an' sick an' needs our help," Baladan said firmly. "Nikoden, run ahead an' bring Rawlstow to the cave."

"But, Baladan, we can't just leave this crack!" Donkor exclaimed. "What if…something _else_ comes through?"

Baladan nodded. "You and Padovan stay to guard it. But mind you don't strike first and ask questions later," he added as the two stepped up beside the crack, taking a firmer grip of their picks. "The next thing to come through might just be another poor refugee like this. Halkin, you and Jorkin carry him back; Danskot and Norindal, go ahead to get the bed ready an' heat some water."

The faun's frame was pitifully light as they lifted it; the chief difficulty lay in finding a way to carry him without touching the cruel lash marks on his back.

Baladan himself walked beside the two bearers in case they needed any aid, gazing sympathetically at the faun's face.

Danskot and Norindal had a bed made up beside the fire when they arrived, and Halkin and Jorkin carefully lay him on his side. He stirred slightly as Baladan spread a light cover over him, his eyelids twitching in returning consciousness as he moaned.

"Should we give him somethin' ta eat, do ye think?" Jorkin asked.

Baladan shook his head. "Better not until Rawlstow gets here. But a hot drink couldn't hurt, if he's awake enough to swallow." He took the cup Norindal handed him and tested the temperature of the steaming liquid before bending to slip an arm around the faun's shoulders and raise him up to drink.

 **oOo**

The little faun came back to consciousness slowly, fighting to remain in peaceful oblivion; even to slip away further. He moaned as the pain in his back made itself felt once more. But surely this was still a dream… and despite the pain, such a nice dream! He lay on a surface so soft he had forgotten such things even existed, a light covering spread over him. The air was warm and dry, and as he slitted his eyelids open, he could see light. It hurt his eyes, but how beautiful it was!

Then a figure bent into his field of vision, and the little faun whimpered, trying to wiggle back in spite of the pain. For it was a dwarf.

"There, now, I won't hurt ye," the dwarf soothed, slipping an arm around his shoulders — careful to avoid the worst of the lash marks, though the faun was in no condition to realize it. He stared in frozen fear at the steaming cup in the dwarf's hand; did the dwarf intend to dash it in his face?

"I have something fer ye ta drink," the dwarf continued, and the faun whimpered, pulling his head back and wondering at how quickly the dream had turned into a nightmare. If a dwarf was offering him a drink, it must be something nasty; maybe even poisonous.

"Don't be afraid," the dwarf soothed, and his voice was gentle, not harsh and cruel like those of the dwarves in the mines. "See?" And he took a sip of the steaming brew, then smiled and held it to the faun's lips. "It's good; drink it."

Still staring in wide-eyed fear, the little faun let the dwarf put the cup to his lips.

Prepared for something nasty, the warm sweetness was such a shock he nearly forgot to swallow. The drink tasted like chocolate and toffee melted together, without being overly sweet; when he finally did swallow it was smooth and soothing on his dry throat. He took another sip eagerly, and the dwarf smilingly pulled his hand back a little. "Slowly," he warned. "You don't want to choke on it, now."

He had drunk only a quarter of the cup when he felt the familiar tickle in his lungs, the cough coming so suddenly and violently that the warm drink was spattered over the dwarf's hand.

The dwarf's eyes narrowed in concern, forced to watch helplessly as the little faun coughed and gasped for breath. As the spasm finally passed he went limp, and the dwarf gently lay him down and soberly used a cloth to wipe the blood from his mouth. "Aslan keep you," he murmured, and prayed Rawlstow would get there soon.

 _ **Next chapter coming next week!**_

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	3. Tender Care

**Chapter Three: Tender Care**

Minutes later, the fox's sleek red form glided through the door, followed by a panting Nikoden. "How is he?" Rawlstow questioned, pausing to lick his paws clean.

"He was coughin' up blood," Baladan said soberly. "He's pretty bad, Rawlstow. We gave him some hot toddy; I hope that was all right?"

"Probably couldn't hurt," the fox assured him, following him to the bedside.

"This is the healer Rawlstow," Baladan told the faun gently, though there was no sign the little creature heard.

Rawlstow pressed his nose to the faun's temple, checking his temperature. "He's burnin' up," he said grimly. He sniffed at the air. "There's infection somewhere."

"Wait until you see his back," Baladan said soberly. He folded back the blanket, and Rawlstow set about examining the little faun thoroughly, listening to his chest for long moments before asking Baladan to turn him to his stomach so he could see his shredded back and the poor stump of his tail.

Yet despite the gravity of these injuries, it was the condition of the little faun's feet that most appalled him; misshapen masses of fungal growth were eating away at the hooves.

"I'll bring him back t'm'den t'treat him, but I have t'start on those hooves now." Taking a sharp knife, he began cutting away the ugly growths, carefully saving all of it to be tossed into the fire. The state of the hooves underneath was pitiable; the layers of keratin had been flaked and cracked, even to the point of bleeding in places. It must have hurt the poor faun dreadfully to walk, he mused.

"I don't have th'supplies w'me t'do more here," the fox said at last, going to the stove and carefully holding the blade of the knife in the flame until the tip began to glow red. "C'n y'make a litter t'carry him t'my den?"

"O' course," the dwarves agreed.

"Burn th'hay from his bedding," Rawlstow ordered quietly. "Th'coverings should either be washed in boiling water or burned. I don't think that fungus c'n spread t'dwarves, but better t'be safe; it would be nasty if it ever did get a hold."

Danskot nodded soberly. "I'll see to it," he promised.

Halkin and Jorkin stepped forward then with the litter they had fashioned, and the poor little faun was lifted onto it. With Rawlstow gliding on four paws by their side, they set out to carry him to the healer's den.

 **oOo**

When next he came to full consciousness, the little faun thought at first he had woken from his pleasant dream. The surface he lay on was harder, and there was no blanket covering him.

And yet…the slave mines had never been this warm. The ache in his back had lessened, and he dimly realized that it was covered in bandages and some sort of soothing salve. There was ointment on his chest as well, and for the first time in a long time he woke without the urge to cough.

Slitting his eyes open, he saw that the fox healer he had thought merely a part of the dream was still working over him. Though the oil he was using on the faun's hooves stung a little, it felt so good to have someone tending his wounds that the faun gave a little wriggle of contentment and hoped that if this was still a dream, he might never wake up.

Seeing he was awake, the healer met his eyes with a fox's smile and the faun watched languidly as he finished oiling his hooves and then wiped his paws clean before coming to the head of the table on which the faun lay. "Yer feelin' better now, I trust?"

The faun managed a small nod.

"M'name is Rawlstow," the fox introduced himself. "An' who might you be?"

"I'm-I'm —" But no name came to his mind, and a sense of panic swept over the little faun. "I don't know — I can't remember!"

"Easy, now," the fox hurried to soothe him. "It doesn't matter if y'can't remember now; I'm sure it will come t'ye later."

The little faun's frantic breathing slowed, though his distress was by no means entirely abated.

"That's better," Rawlstow said kindly, resting a paw on the faun's forehead; he kept his claws filed smooth for just such occasions as this. When the faun seemed to have calmed, he pressed his nose to his temple, checking his temperature. Then he shook the listener from around his neck, approaching with it held in one paw. "I just need t'listen t'yer heart an' breathin'; it may be a little cold," he warned him.

The faun cringed back at the feel of the cool metal, but soon relaxed again, watching the fox with drowsy interest.

"Take a deep breath fer me," Rawlstow told him.

The little faun obeyed, but such a large volume of air irritated his lungs and throat, and he broke into a fit of coughing. The fox continued listening for a moment, then gently pounded the faun's back until he could get his breath back.

"Spit," the fox told him, holding a cloth to his mouth, and he obediently spat out the blood he had coughed up. Rawlstow looked at it and sniffed it before folding the cloth and crossing the room to toss it in the fire. "Take a few sips o' this," he told the little faun, holding a cup of cool water to his lips.

"Thank you," the faun whispered.

"Y'just lie still," Rawlstow told the faun gently. "I'm goin' t'have a look at yer throat." He flicked on his light beam, the sudden brightness making the faun jump. "Open yer mouth an' stick out yer tongue, please." The faun obeyed, slightly mystified at the proceedings. He might have forgotten some things in his previous life, but surely no healer in Narnia had ever before used the methods of this fox. He wondered briefly if it might be in league with the Witch, preparing him for some new form of torture, but quickly dismissed the thought; surely no torture ever felt this nice!

"Good," Rawlstow murmured, extinguishing the light beam and setting it aside. "It looks like th'blood is comin' from the raw patches in yer throat, not from yer lungs."

He disappeared for a moment from the faun's view, and when he returned he held a cup in his paw. "I need y't'drink this," he told the little faun. "It won't taste nice, an' it may sting yer throat a little, but it will help y'feel better." He gently raised the faun's head with a foreleg around his shoulders and held the cup to his lips.

The faun took a cautious sip. It _was_ rather nasty, and burned in his throat, but somehow he trusted that this fox truly meant to help him, and didn't react as he would have if the dwarf had given him something like this. Slowly, wincing with every swallow, he got the entire dose down.

"There, now; that wasn't so bad," Rawlstow soothed, laying him back down.

"Water?" the faun whispered pitifully, longing for something to wash the taste from his mouth.

The fox shook his head. "I'm afraid not; that will help yer throat more if y'don't wash it all off."

The faun sighed a little and closed his eyes, too weary to really care. And despite the lingering aftertaste, he was still far more comfortable than he had ever been in the mines.

"M'mate will help me carry y'to bed," the fox told him. He barked a name, and moments later furry forelegs were lifting the little faun, carrying him and setting him on a bed that seemed soft as a cloud. A fire burned nearby, and the foxes spread a light cover over him. Then the healer placed a bowl of hot herb-infused water in front of him. With the fragrant steam soothing his dry throat and lungs, the little faun drifted to sleep.

 _ **Next chapter coming next week!**_

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	4. Decision

**Chapter Four: Decision**

When the faun woke again and found himself still lying comfortably in a soft bed, he began at last to hope that this truly wasn't a dream. And when was the last time even his dreams had been as nice as this? Too often he dreamed only of more torture.

"Am I…dreaming?" he whispered, as the fox healer bent over him once more.

Rawlstow smiled. "No," he assured him.

"Then…where am I?"

"In m'den in Narnia."

"But…it's Winter in Narnia," the faun protested confusedly. There was a warmth to the room that no fire had been able to provide during the Witch's long Winter.

"Not anymore," Rawlstow said simply. "Aslan has come; th'Witch has been killed, an' it's Spring now."

" _Spring_ …" the faun whispered. "Then this _is_ a dream."

Rawlstow smiled. "It still feels like it sometimes," he admitted. "But then sometimes it seems like th'whole Winter must have been only a bad dream."

"How-how long…?"

"Has it been Spring?"

The faun nodded.

"Nearly ten years now." He did not mean, of course, that the seasons had not changed in Narnia during that time, even turning to winter, but spoke of Aslan's Spring, the Golden Age of Narnia that ended the terrible Winter.

"Ten years," the faun repeated, and found tears in his eyes. Ten years he had been a slave…while Narnia was free.

"There, now," Rawlstow soothed, licking a tear that had escaped down the faun's cheek. "Y'c'n tell me what happened t'ye later, but first d'y'think yer up t'eatin' a little broth?"

The faun nodded, bravely sniffling back the rest of his tears. Rawlstow gently helped him sit up, then made way for Vroxa to sit beside him and spoon the thick, nourishing broth into the faun's mouth. There had been no need to warn her to make sure it contained no rodent; she was as sensitive as he to most bipeds' strange aversion.

But to the little faun, the broth was so tasty and satisfying that he never would have thought to ask or even care what was in it.

"An' now, c'n y'tell me how y'ended up in the dwarves' mine?" Rawlstow asked when the faun lay with a pleasantly full stomach for the first time in years.

"I…don't know," the faun whispered, shuddering slightly at the mention of dwarves. "Someone told me to follow…so I did…and then I was there."

"An'…before?"

"I was a slave in the mines," the faun whispered.

Rawlstow nodded and decided not to press the faun with further questions while he was still so weak. "That's over now," he assured the little faun gently. "But yer still very ill; let's just see how yer doin'."

He looked at the faun's throat and checked his heart and breathing before preparing another dose of medicine for him. When he had drunk it, Rawlstow set about dressing his wounds as the little faun drifted back into peaceful sleep.

 **oOo**

It was a short time later that the dwarves Baladan and Danskot arrived at the den. "How is he?" Baladan questioned soberly when Rawlstow came to greet him.

Rawlstow glanced over his shoulder toward the room where the faun lay. "He seems t'be doin' a little better. He was awake earlier, an' he had some broth."

"C'n we see him?"

The fox hesitated. "Better not. He's sleepin' now, but he seems t'be afraid of dwarves, an' I think it would b'best t'wait till he's stronger."

Baladan nodded in acceptance. "Did ye find out what happened ta him?"

"A little."

"Then c'n we talk? We need ta decide what ta do about that crack in our mine."

The fox inclined his head in agreement. "Come sit outside so y'won't disturb him if he wakes."

The two dwarves seated themselves on a log, with Rawlstow sitting on the ground in front of them. "So, Fox, how did he get in such a sorry state?" Baladan asked almost sadly.

"He was a slave in a mine o'some kind," the fox explained. "Sent there by the White Witch, I've little doubt."

"An' dwarves were often her henchmen," Baladan murmured.

"Aye. Ye know he had no idea th'Witch was dead an' Winter was over?"

"The poor thing," Baladan murmured.

"Aye, but then how did he get into _our_ mine? Did he just stumble on that crack?"

"He says he was led t'it; by who or what he couldn't say."

Danskot scowled. "Then somethin' _else_ knows where our mine is?"

"Peace, Danskot," Baladan murmured.

"Meself, I think it may have been Aslan," Rawlstow said mildly.

Danskot's eyes widened. "But surely even as ill as he was he would remember a _Lion_!" he sputtered.

" _If_ he appeared as a Lion," Baladan pointed out. "I have heard of him takin' other forms when it suits his purpose. But in any case, Rawlstow, what should we _do_? We have a crack in our mine leadin' ta a slave mine in th' North — giantish, I shouldn't wonder. Do we simply keep guardin' it, or do ye think we should send a message to Cair Paravel?"

"I think y'should," Rawlstow agreed. "It's not likely he was th'only Narnian prisoner, an' the high king ought t'know."

 _ **Next chapter coming next week!**_

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	5. Dinnertime

**Chapter Five: Dinnertime**

By the next day, the faun was feeling so much better that when Rawlstow examined him, he asked if he might sit up for a while.

The fox cocked his head to the side in consideration. "It will do y'no harm," he decided. "An' it will be good fer yer lungs. Here; get up slowly an' lean on me." Supporting most of the faun's weight, he helped him hobble to the rocking chair beside the cookstove, where he wrapped him in a blanket to guard against chills.

"There, now. Are y'comfortable?"

The faun nodded, coughing slightly from the exertion of walking.

"Good. Ye just stay here, an' don't try t'walk. I have t'go out an' gather some o' m'herbs, but Vroxa is here if y'need anythin'."

The faun watched drowsily as the vixen bustled about the kitchen, kneading dough and preparing six plump loaves to go into the oven. Half dozing, he was unaware of the passing of time before she was taking them out and setting them on the table to cool, their tempting fragrance nearly making his nose twitch with longing.

Dropping to all fours, Vroxa came to the faun's side. "D'ye'need anythin'?" she asked him.

"No…thank you," the faun replied, roused slightly by her words.

"I have t'gather mushrooms an' I don't know where th'kits went; will y'be all right fer a few minutes by yerself?"

The little faun nodded.

Vroxa hesitated, slightly unsure about the wisdom of leaving him alone. "I'll be right outside th'window, so ye b'sure t'call if y'need anythin'," she told him.

"I will," the faun promised.

Vroxa paused another instant before picking up her basket and leaving, wondering as she did so where those kits _had_ gone. She had intended them to gather the mushrooms, but now they were nowhere to be seen and she must do it herself.

The faun looked around after she left, roused now from his doze. His gaze kept falling on the warm loaves on the table, their aroma seeming to him the best thing he had ever smelled. How long had it been since he tasted fresh bread? Before he was captured, surely, and it would have been scarce during the Witch's Winter as well. He found he could hardly even remember what it would taste like.

Barely knowing what he was doing, he slowly got up and limped his way over to the table. He sniffed the air again, savouring the delicious aroma, then as if in a trance picked up the bread knife that lay on the table beside the loaves. Cutting a thick slice, he drizzled it with honey from the bowl and blissfully sank his teeth into it.

Never had he tasted anything so delicious, he was sure. If not for the pain he still felt, he surely would think he had died and gone to Aslan's Country.

 **oOo**

When Vroxa returned with her basket of mushrooms, she was surprised to find the faun lying curled in his bed, moaning pitifully. Setting the basket down, she hurried to his side. "What's wrong?" she asked anxiously, guilt over having left him washing over her.

The faun whimpered but made no other reply, and Vroxa licked his face. "I'll go get Rawlstow," she told him, and disappeared out the door in a flash of red fur.

"Rawlstow!" Her bark carried through the woods, and his answering bark assured her he was coming long before he came into view. She barked once more to let him know she would be at the den and then hurried back to wait by the faun's side.

"What happened?" Rawlstow questioned, entering the den and taking in the moaning faun at a glance.

"I don't know," Vroxa admitted, not meeting her mate's eyes. "I…stepped out t'gather mushrooms, an' when I came back he was like this."

"He got into bed on his own?" Rawlstow questioned.

"Aye."

Rawlstow stepped closer to the faun and gently touched his face with his nose. "Where does it hurt?" he questioned.

"Stomach," the little faun moaned, curling tighter in his agony.

"Y'have t'let m'see," Rawlstow told him, ignoring the faun's pitiful cries as he rolled him onto his back. With an insistent paw, he moved aside the hands the faun held to his belly, then pressed his paw to the faun's stomach. To his surprise, it felt tight and round, not what he would have expected from the faun's nearly-starved state. "Have y'eaten anythin'?" he questioned.

The faun merely groaned, bur Vroxa gasped. "Th'bread," she whispered. "I made six loaves…but there's only five on th'table." She crossed to investigate more closely. "There's crumbs all over…an' most of th'honey's gone."

"Y'ate a _whole_ _loaf_ of bread?" Rawlstow asked in disbelief. Vroxa's loaves were smaller than a human would have made them, but still far too large to eat at one sitting.

"It tasted so good," the poor little faun moaned.

Rawlstow shook his head. "But it doesn't feel s'good now," he said almost sternly.

"Give…something," the faun begged.

Rawlstow licked his face and gently rolled him to his side, where he immediately curled back into his protective ball. "Y'don't need anythin'; yer body will take care o' th'problem very soon." He turned toward Vroxa. "Can y'bring a basin? I imagine we're goin' t'have a very sick little faun."

The faun groaned again, and Rawlstow licked his sweaty face. "Ye'll feel better in a bit," he promised softly.

Soon the faun's expression began to change as the sensation in his stomach turned from pain to a strong feeling of nausea. His face took on a distinct greenish cast, and he panted for air.

"Easy," Rawlstow murmured. "Don't try t'hold it back." Within minutes, there was no holding it back as the little faun was more violently sick than he had ever been in his life. He retched until it irritated his throat, then fell into a fit of gagging coughs until the coughing made him vomit again. Several times the cycle repeated itself until at last his stomach had nothing more to expel and he was able to lay back, panting and nearly crying as tears ran down his face.

Rawlstow gave the basin to Vroxa to dispose of, then gently checked the faun over thoroughly and finally mixed a potion for him to swallow. "Just drink this," he coaxed, raising the faun's head on his foreleg. "That's right…it will help yer throat an' stomach an' help y'sleep." He lay the faun down and gently licked the tearstains from his face.

"I'll never eat clover honey again," the poor faun moaned.

Rawlstow smiled sympathetically. "I daresay y'won't," he agreed. It had been the large volume of food in a stomach long accustomed to starvation that made the faun so sick, not the honey or even the bread, but he knew well how the mind would forever associate the last thing eaten with the episode.

"I'm sorry, Rawlstow," Vroxa said in a low voice, crossing her front paws and lowering her head meekly. "I shouldn't've left him alone."

"P'raps not," Rawlstow admitted, licking his mate's nose. "But he's no longer ill enough t'need constant watchin', an' I didn't tell y't'stay in the den."

"I knew y'meant m'to, though," Vroxa insisted without lifting her head.

Rawlstow pushed her muzzle up with his own. "Enough," he told her firmly. "'Tis not yer fault that th'smell o' yer fresh bread was too much fer him t'resist." He shook his head. "Though I still can't see how one faun managed t' eat a _whole loaf_ at one sittin'."

Vroxa smiled slightly, allowing him to absolve her of the guilt she still felt she deserved.

 **oOo**

Vroxa prepared a creamy mushroom soup for dinner that night, setting the faun's portion aside before adding meat to the rest. The wayward kits appeared as usual in time for the meal, accepting their scolding with unrepentant mischief in their eyes. This was the most troublesome of her litters, Vroxa reflected, but grinned at them fondly as she served their soup and passed slices of bread and honey. After all, what was a fox without a little mischief?

When after the foxes' own meal was complete Rawlstow brought the faun's bowl of soup to him, the little faun shrank back, eyeing it almost fearfully.

"Are y'still feelin' sick?" Rawlstow asked in concern.

"No — but I will!" he whimpered, his hunger warring with his fear of eating.

"No, y'won't," Rawlstow promised. "Not if y'go slowly an' eat only as much as I give ye." Setting the bowl aside for a moment, he helped the faun sit up a little. Then, sensing he was still too fearful to feed himself, he spooned a bit of the thick, creamy broth into his mouth. "There, now; that's good, isn't it?"

The little faun merely stared at him with wide eyes, but did not refuse a second spoonful. Slowly Rawlstow coaxed him to eat most of the small bowl of soup, and the faun had a comfortable smile when at last Rawlstow helped him lie back down. "Y'sleep now," he told him gently, and curling into a drowsy ball, the little faun did.

 _ **Next chapter coming next week!**_

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	6. Guest of Honour

**Chapter Six: Guest of Honour**

"They're comin'! They're comin'!" the kits cried excitedly, tumbling over each other as they burst into the den several days later.

The faun jumped to his feet with a cry of alarm, and Rawlstow yapped sharply at the kits. "Do you need to scare him like that?" he demanded.

One of the kits trotted over to the faun. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "It's not anyone _bad_ , y'know!"

"It's th'king!" his brother cried, too excited to keep back the news any longer.

"You mean… _Aslan_?" the faun whispered, allowing Rawlstow to settle him back in his chair.

"O' course not!" the third kit barked in disbelief. "It's th'high king Peter."

"How would he know what y'mean?" Rawlstow scolded, though until the faun spoke, it had not occurred even to him that he knew nothing of the four human sovereigns now reigning in Cair Paravel.

When at last Rawlstow was free to look out, he saw that the high king Peter was indeed approaching the den, accompanied by two stern centaurs as his entourage. And at his side, looking decidedly uncomfortable on his pony, rode the faun Tumnus.

Rawlstow hurried out to meet them, crossing his front paws and bowing low. "M'liege," he murmured.

Peter smiled. "Rise, friend Fox," he said as he dismounted. He turned toward the faun. "This is Tumnus, my sister Lucy's first friend in Narnia." He frowned as he looked more closely. "Tumnus…are you all right?"

"O-oh," Tumnus groaned, his eyes half closed as he clutched his saddle. "Have we stopped?"

Peter smiled ruefully. "He is not accustomed to riding," he said in explanation. "Yes, Tumnus, we've arrived. Here." Offering a hand, he helped the faun from his pony and made sure he was steady on his hooves. "I brought him as a companion to your faun, and to see if perchance he might recognize him," he explained in a low voice.

Rawlstow nodded. "Come in, an' I will get y'somethin' t'eat an' drink." He glanced up at the tall centaurs. "I'll send m'mate Vroxa out with somethin' fer you," he told them.

The centaurs inclined their heads in grave acceptance, unoffended at not being asked inside when it was obvious they wouldn't fit.

In his healer's chamber Rawlstow paused. "I should prepare th'faun before y'come in t'see him. Tumnus c'n sit on the table there if he wants," he said, gesturing with a paw.

"I can't sit!" the poor faun groaned, clinging to the high king's arm.

The fox healer regarded him with his head cocked on one side. "Later I'll fix ye a nice hot bath t'soak in," he promised.

Peter shook his head ruefully. "I apologize, healer; it was not my intent to bring you another patient."

Rawlstow gave a short bark of laughter and disappeared into the other room.

"Vroxa, prepare some refreshment for the high king Peter an' the faun Tumnus, an' bring some out t'th'two centaurs as well."

As she moved to obey, Rawlstow went to the faun's side. "Th'high king Peter would like to speak with you," he told him.

"With…me?" the faun asked, trembling. "But… what have I done?"

"Nothing," Rawlstow assured him, laying a hand on the little faun's wrist. "He is a _true_ king, not like th'White Witch; he wishes t'know what befell y' so he c'n avenge y', an' rescue any other Narnians who may still share yer fate. An' he brought th'faun Tumnus t'visit y', an' mebbe tell y' who y'are."

If anything the faun's trembling increased, though for a different reason this time, and Rawlstow eyed him with concern. "Are y'up t'seein' them?" he asked gently.

The little faun nodded bravely, though Rawlstow suspected he was merely afraid to refuse a king, and Rawlstow went to bring the guests in.

On re-joining Peter and Tumnus, Rawlstow was only mildly surprised to find that the kits had sneaked past him and his mate and were sniffing around the high king's cloak. Rawlstow yapped sharply at them, sending them scurrying out of the den, then turned to Peter in apology. "I hope they haven't been botherin' y', Sire." He, too, smelled another creature who had not yet been introduced hidden in the folds of cloth, but curbed his natural curiosity in the knowledge that the king would reveal it at the right time.

"Not at all," Peter assured him with a smile.

"Y'c'n come in an' see him," Rawlstow told him. "But remember he's still weak, an' he's afraid o' you; th'only sovereign he knows is th'White Witch."

"I'll be gentle," Peter promised, and offered a hand to Tumnus to help him hobble behind the fox.

"M'liege, our faun; Faun, th'high king Peter an' th'faun Tumnus."

"M-majesty," the little faun chattered, shrinking back with wide eyes that reflected all the horror of the last time he had stood before royalty. The stump of his tail seemed to ache even more at the memory.

Going down on one knee, Peter gently laid a hand on the little faun's shoulder. "Peace, friend," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you." He turned to Tumnus. "Do you know him?"

Tumnus screwed up his face in concentration, attempting to picture the little faun as he would have looked before his ordeal. "Yes," he whispered. "I think… it's Jeffus."

"Jeffus," the little faun whispered, savouring the soft sound of it on his tongue. There was a slight familiarity to it which seemed to bring back faint memories of happier times. Echoes of other fauns' voices rang in his mind, and he closed his eyes against the tears streaming down his face.

"You knew him, then?" Peter asked Tumnus softly, letting the faun take time to recover.

"Yes," Tumnus said in a low voice.

"Were you aware of what happened to him?"

"Yes." Tumnus' eyes had dropped still further, and he kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Tumnus?"

"We…all knew what happened to him," he whispered. "We…I was afraid of having the same thing happen to me. So when the Witch came, that was when I agreed to-to —" He buried his face in his hands, unable to go further.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder. "Peace, Tumnus. You never expected to have to honour your agreement, and in any case it's in the past, and has all been forgiven. No need to speak of it anymore."

The little faun Jeffus was looking on with wide-eyed curiosity, but at Peter's words wouldn't have dared to ask. Peter volunteered nothing then, knowing that in time Tumnus would tell him the full story of how he had taken service under the White Witch, and the little Daughter of Eve from Spare Oom who had appeared in the forest and made him fully understand and regret his decision.

 _ **Next chapter coming next week!**_

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	7. Winged Scout

**Chapter Seven: Winged Scout**

After speaking with Jeffus about his ordeal in the mines, Peter, accompanied by Rawlstow, went to the dwarves' cave to see the crack for himself.

When he expressed his intentions, the dwarves looked at each other in some indecision. "The location of our mine is secret, sire," Nikoden explained, flushing red as he spoke and looking away uncomfortably.

"I think we c'n make an exception fer th' high king," Baladan said firmly. "But sire, ye must promise not to tell anyone else where th' entrance is, an' we will bring only you down."

"But I brought someone with me to investigate this crack to the enemy's mines." Lifting a fold of his cloak, he disclosed a bat clinging there, blinking in the light of the cave. "Too bright!" she squeaked, shifting her wings to cover her eyes, and Peter let his cloak fall to cover her once more. So that was who he had smelled, Rawlstow mused.

Again the dwarves looked at each other. "Ye c'n bring her, as long as she stays in yer cloak until we reach the crack," Baladan decided.

"Very well," Peter agreed. "As you saw, she is uncomfortable in daylight in any case." As he spoke, he felt her shifting to arrange herself comfortably in the folds of his cloak.

Baladan got to his feet. "Shall we go now, then?"

"By all means," Peter agreed, resting a hand on the table to pull himself up from the dwarf-sized chair he had been sitting in.

The dwarf took a torch from the basket where they lay ready and made his way to the back of the cave. At a push on the rock, a barely noticeable crack revealed itself as a door, and Baladan gestured the high king through it. "Mind your head," he warned. "Th' tunnels are meant fer dwarves, an' yer tall even for a human."

Stooping, Peter pressed a hand to the top of his head for protection and entered the mine. The dwarf carefully shut the secret door, then lit his torch from one that burned beside the entrance. "This way," he said, stepping out to lead Peter through the tunnel.

Dwarf picks echoed in the distance, but there was no one working in the shaft down which Baladan led the king. In fact, it seemed deserted until he saw the two dwarves stationed as sentries beside the crack.

Realizing at once who this visitor to their mine must be, they bowed in dwarven fashion. "My liege."

Peter nodded acknowledgement and glanced at the ceiling before cautiously straightening as he approached the crack.

Reaching inside his cloak, he brought the bat out clinging to his arm, causing the two dwarves who had not been aware of her presence to start slightly in surprise. "Skitterflit will explore the crack and the regions beyond and bring back news of what she finds," he explained quietly. "I trust you always have sentries here?"

"Aye," Baladan agreed.

"Then when she returns, I hope you will make her comfortable, and come to find me at the healer's."

"Of course, your majesty," Baladan agreed.

Peter gently placed Skitterflit on the edge of the crack. "Go on now, and be sure you are not caught."

"An' don't be leadin' anymore slaves out through our mine!" one of the guards added.

Peter chuckled. "That's right, Skitterflit," he agreed. "I will be rescuing them soon enough without bothering these good dwarves further."

"I hear and obey, majesty," she said in her high, squeaky voice. Turning sideways, she crawled out of sight into the crack.

"Are you all right, Skitterflit?" Peter called after a moment.

"Aye, sire!" her answer came back. "I'm off!" She let herself drop, and the slight sound of her flapping echoed back through the crack for a moment before it was gone.

 _ **Next chapter coming next week!**_

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


	8. Slaves Set Free

**To guest reviewer Harpy Hippogriff:** Thanks for the nice review! If you want to see a story where the "familiar characters" from the books take a bigger part, check out my story "Spider Bite." You can also look on my profile for a list of my other Narnia stories, and check back occasionally in case I post more. I always have a story completely written before I start posting it, so you never have to worry about me abandoning one (that always annoys me, too). That may also be part of how I proofread so well (though the craziest things get past me sometimes); it's easier to see mistakes when you haven't just written the chapter the day before. Barbie

 **Chapter Eight: Slaves Set Free**

"Will Jeffus be well enough to come when I leave for Cair Paravel?" Peter asked that evening.

"That depends on when y'leave, sire," Rawlstow pointed out with no trace of jest in his voice. "But it will be some time before he's ready t'travel; I mean t' amputate his tail properly — it looks as'f they half yanked it out by th'roots, poor thing! — and I believe somethin' c'n b'done fer his horns as well."

"There are healers in Cair Paravel," Peter suggested.

"Aye, but if it's all th'same t'ye, sire, I'd like t'see th'case through."

Peter chuckled. "As you wish, then. I will leave Tumnus here to keep him company; I'm sure he doesn't relish the ride back in any event."

" _Neither_ of them are goin' back on horseback," Rawlstow said firmly, and Peter merely chuckled once more.

 **oOo**

The bat Skitterflit returned within a few days, bringing news that the mines were indeed owned by giants, and most of the miners slaves sold by the White Witch; Peter shuddered to think of what she might have gotten in return. In answer to the dwarves' fears, Skitterflit assured them that no one else seemed to know about the crack Jeffus had been shown, and the mining work did not appear likely to break into their tunnels. Peter spread a map on the table, and Skitterflit traced with a wingtip the curvings of the mine, Peter sketching in the lines for her with the pen she found too awkward to hold, and pointed out the rooms where the slaves were held when off duty. There were few entrances to the outside, each guarded by a rotating shift of five or so giants, none of whom could fit into the mines themselves. The overseers were mainly dwarves, willing servants of the Witch who had displeased her in some way. Those few dwarves who had outright defied her were not to be found in the mines at all; perhaps she realized that even at the receiving end of a whip, mining would hardly be considered harsh punishment to them.

Peter nodded slowly as he rolled up the map, battle strategies already running through his mind. "Thank you, Skitterflit." He turned to Rawlstow. "I thank you for your hospitality, friend Fox. The centaurs and I will return now to Cair Paravel; within the month I believe we will make our attack on the giants and free those far too long held captive. I leave Tumnus and Jeffus in your care."

Rawlstow crossed his paws and bowed. "They are most welcome in m'den, majesty."

Peter held open his cloak, and Skitterflit clawed her way to her accustomed spot, yawning in the daylight hours. Peter dropped the cloak over her as she folded her wings around herself, and rose to say his final farewells.

 **oOo**

Under Rawlstow's care, Jeffus soon grew strong enough for the operation, but the little faun himself was hesitant. "There's no need," he tried to insist to the healer. "It aches, but not as much as it did."

"Aye, but it's healed badly an' is prone t'infection," Rawlstow pointed out. "Th'horns I c'n let y'decide, but th'tail must be done."

The little faun sighed as if facing the worst of the Witch's torture. "All right. Will it — will it hurt much?"

Understanding flooded over Rawlstow; Jeffus fully expected to be awake during the amputation, as he had been when his tail was originally cut off. "Y'won't feel it," he promised gently. "Ye'll be asleep."

"Asleep?" Jeffus whispered in wonder.

"Aye. It may be a bit more sore at first afterward, but I have herbs t'ease that as well."

"And…and my horns?"

"I c'n likely do those at th'same time; if not I'll put y't'sleep again t'do them."

"Then…all right," the little faun agreed. "Wh-when will you do it?"

"Tomorrow fer th'tail," Rawlstow decided. "Th'horns soon after if not at the same time."

 **oOo**

When Jeffus awoke, fresh bandages covered the stump of his tail and were wrapped around his head where his horns had been. Rawlstow had removed the bone of the tail at the joint, enough of the fleshy part being left to cover and pad the stump. The horns had been harder, but he had cut them off as low as he could and managed to cover them with skin from the scalp. He hoped the itching would diminish, now that the cut ends were no longer exposed and drying out.

While Jeffus still stayed recovering in Rawlstow's den, Peter gathered his army and marched into the north to do battle against the giants. Within a week, the mines were closed and the slaves set free, led bewildered and wondering into Narnia. Centaur healers tended the worst injured of them on the spot, while the dwarf overseers remained prisoners until it could be determined where their loyalties lay.

Though the initial objective was accomplished immediately, the giants did not take kindly to having their slave labour forcibly taken from them, and the battles continued for over a year before the high king Peter the Magnificent was at last victorious.

Long before that, however, Tumnus and Jeffus had made the journey to Cair Paravel, where the little faun had been welcomed to court by none other than Queen Lucy herself. He had trembled at the thought of meeting another queen, remembering the Witch, but sunny, laughing Lucy soon banished all such thoughts from his mind.

And when at last Peter returned victorious from the north, Jeffus stood on the ramparts with Tumnus and cheered with all his might.

* * *

… And they drove back the fierce giants (quite a different sort from giant Rumblebuffin) on the north of Narnia when these ventured across the frontier.

 _~ The Lion, the Witch, & the Wardrobe_

 **THE END**

 _I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)_

 _Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


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